


Guerrerita

by Professional_Creeper



Category: Trouble in the Heights (2011)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bodyguard, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Fist Fights, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Minor Violence, No actual domestic violence but people making assumptions bc Nevada is Nevada, Praise Kink, Protectiveness, References to past trauma, Semi-Public Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:01:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27043150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professional_Creeper/pseuds/Professional_Creeper
Summary: Even violent criminals need someone to protect them, and Nevada's new bodyguard is a demon in disguise
Relationships: Nevada Ramirez/Original Female Character(s), Nevada Ramirez/Reader
Kudos: 8





	1. Date Night

While most people would consider a romantic dinner at a sophisticated restaurant relaxing, everything about it had you on edge. It was too fancy for you to belong there, even in the elegant dress Nevada bought for you. The dress was too form-fitting, too low-cut. It made your cleavage look ample, and though you were getting accustomed to wearing such pieces in your new employ, your confidence in the feminine was still lacking.

You hunkered low in your seat, trying to be as small as possible so no one would look at you. Of course your nervous fidgeting only made them look _more._

Not helping matters was your date, sitting across from you at the small, intimate dining table. Nevada Ramirez cocked his brow sarcastically as he made an inappropriately sexual comment about the aforementioned dress, and the aforementioned way your breasts looked in it.

“It’s almost distracting enough that you don’t notice the—” he gestured at your face with a mocking smirk, and laughed almost cruelly as he saw your eyes flash wide. Your jaw clenched and you thought of a million biting comebacks you could shoot at him, and briefly envisioned flipping over the table and decking him, but instead you shrunk further in your chair. “Come on, guerrerita, don’t be like that,” he frowned. He almost seemed genuinely upset that you were shriveling instead of being riled into taking his bait.

Never in a million years would you have imagined yourself with an asshole like Nevada. Vulgar, loud, rough around the edges. A gang leader who earned the nickname of a ruthless dictator. But he found you at a low point in your life, recruited you into the crime family, and gave you a purpose when everything in your law-abiding life was falling apart.

It was a recent development that you’d admitted your feelings for each other, and until now your relationship (outside of work) had been limited to passionate, desperate, intense sex. Fucking Trujillo was like fucking the illegal fireworks he sold, but this was the first time you’d allowed yourself to be seen out in public with him—in decent company, anyway.

He’d insisted on taking you out to celebrate with something nice, just the two of you. None of his men lurking over your shoulders. Something he thought you’d want, even though all you wanted was to go back to the Heights and rip his clothing off. Now you were too pissed off and embarrassed to even want to fuck him.

You thought he might tone himself down for the upscale venue, but Vada had been his usual obnoxious self all night, and more genteel diners were glaring. Honestly, this was why you couldn’t stand him at first, even though he was incredibly handsome. But his boorish exterior belied a cunning, organized businessman who had all of Washington Heights under his thumb, who earned his community’s loyalty through fear, yes, but ultimately, by taking care of them. There was, underneath the showy performances of flippant laughter and casual brutality, a certain sensitivity you had grown keenly protective of. He saw the value in things others overlooked. He recognized your flaws—all the anger and pain stamped inside you behind those mild suburban manners. He saw your value.

You wouldn’t say you loved him. He would always be a ruthless criminal, and one day you’d want your normal life back. But you had grown… attached.

One of the glaring diners was eyeing Nevada with particular suspicion, not just briefly glancing up when he laughed too loud or made a rude remark to the waiter. He shot Vada a profoundly dirty look and held it long enough to raise your hackles. He sat at the bar about four table-lengths away, had shoulder-length hair, a messy stubble beard, and a very physical build. You would have mistaken him for a surfer except you were on the wrong coast, and your instincts told you he was dangerous. You quietly assessed the potential threat while maintaining your meek posture low in the chair. A cop? Or a rival gang leader? Unlikely to make a move inside the restaurant with so many witnesses. You’d watch the exits when it was time for the check.

The waiter brought the main course to the table, and blessedly, digging into a meal finally shut up Nevada’s feisty tongue. Instead of sleazy remarks, he made small-talk about how good everything tasted. Maybe it wasn’t just having his mouth stuffed that mellowed him. There was a softness in his eyes now, a look reserved for when you were alone together, when he knew something was bothering you. You guessed he finally caught on that you were not having a good time.

Nevada never took anything seriously, until suddenly he did. You’d seen him throw opponents off balance by dropping from sardonic laughter to spine-chilling hostility, and the effect was equally potent when he dropped into affection.

His foot bumped into your leg—those shiny black leather shoes that looked like someone cut off a tacky cowboy boot at the ankle—and slowly brushed against it under the table. It wasn’t an aggressively sexual maneuver, just an affectionate contact letting you know he was there. It worked. You lanced a tortellini on your fork, and felt your shoulders relax with his change in attitude. It was a simple gesture, but the warmth of his leg spread tingling waves through your skin, making your face flush. A private, intimate moment, like a sharing secret. That was the most thrilling part of the relationship, really—the secret that the fearsome Trujillo had a tender side. In a way, you were like two opposite halves that fit together perfectly.

Before long, you were comfortable enough to start gushing about the day’s victory you were there to celebrate, and the staring stranger had slipped entirely from your mind.

* * *

You excused yourself to use the bathroom, and as you washed your hands in the mirror, you got a good look your giant black eye. You’d taken a glove to the face hard, but it opened your opponent’s guard and let you hit them back harder until they went down, and you walked away with prize money from the biggest tournament you’d ever won. Nevada was so turned on by your aggression, it took all his willpower not to barge into the locker room and fuck you right then and there. Instead, he treated you to dinner at a nice place like a gentleman, which was a very sweet, if misguided effort.

The bruise had spread and darkened in the hours since you received it, and your makeup no longer did anything to hide it. And there you were all innocent, in a cute little dress, slouching nervously across from a character from _Breaking Bad_. Oh fuck, no wonder everyone was giving him dirty looks.

An icy fist clenched around your heart as you remembered surfer-hair sitting at the bar, and you suddenly didn’t feel right about leaving Nevada unguarded. You shook the water off your hands and rushed back out into the dining area.

You were just being paranoid, of course. No one would start a fight in the middle of the restau—

_Fuck._

Your table was empty. And so was that spot at the bar.

Worst-case scenarios ran through your head and your field of vision narrowed. A waiter hurried past with a tray of dirty dishes and you grabbed him by the arm hard enough for several plates to go flying as you whipped him around. “Did you see where the man at that table went?!” you demanded, pointing.

Indignant protests died half-formed on the surprised waiter’s lips and turned to terror at your intensity. “I-I think he went out to smoke! The side door!”

You dropped his arm without a thank you and marched with purpose to the door, which pushed open into a dim back alley.

“If you _ever_ lay a hand on her again—” surfer-hair was snarling, pinning Nevada against the side of a metal dumpster, fist raised about to strike. Nevada’s lip was bleeding, but he wore a cocky grin, letting fly a string of filthy Spanish expletives. “You think it’s funny beating on a helpless girl? Let’s see how you like it.”

Nevada was scrappy, but not especially large. He’d gotten in a few hits, but was losing, badly. He was more the brains of his criminal operation, which was why he was always accompanied by protection. And now you were seeing red.

The man got off another punch to Nevada’s smirking face before you could reach them, the dull impact unlocking a boiling rage that rose in your blood and turned you into someone you wouldn’t recognize once the heat had passed. As he reared back for another, you used his momentum to keep him sailing backwards, off balance. “DON’T YOU”—you kicked him in the chest, staggering him back—“FUCKING TOUCH HIM!” you roared. Carrying forward on the momentum of the kick, you threw your entire body into punch after brutal punch, hissing and snarling like an animal, driving him back and down, your primal fury relishing the sensation of fists slamming into solid flesh and bone. You were going to break this fucker for daring to hurt Trujillo. “I will kill you! _I will kill you!_ ” you screamed, thrashing him in a relentless onslaught that never gave him an opening to regain his footing. The man might have given a better showing but he was still recovering from the shock of being beaten senseless by a demon he had assumed was a fragile soul in need of rescuing.

You felt a hand grasp your shoulder and threw a vicious elbow, stopping yourself inches before seeing whose nose it was you were about to shatter. “Princesa, princesa—calmate. Tranquila, baby girl…” he cooed, pulling you off.

“I’ll fucking kill you!” you kept shrieking, legs and arms kicking out at the air, trying to continue raining blows down on your enemy as Nevada restrained you. You struggled against Nevada’s arms, your hammering pulse chanting murder in your ear, but never striking a blow against him. Even in a blind rage, your instincts recognized he was yours to protect.

In the way his long fingers gripped you, the rhythm of his breath in your ear, and how close he held his body firm against you, he was clearly turned on. He cackled at the would-be do-gooder. “You don’t wanna mess with an MMA champ’s boyfriend, comemierda. I don’t think she’s kidding! Better run while you can.”

“Alright, alright, Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, guarding his face. “Who the hell are you people?”

Nevada’s smile could have split his face in two. “She’s my bodyguard.”

* * *

Nevada held onto you, still feeling the rage boiling inside and unsure what you’d do if he let you go. He turned you to face him, peppering kisses onto your hair and your forehead as you struggled to calm your breathing. Very gently, delicately, he kissed the inflamed skin on your bruise. Then, even more delicately, he brushed the skin he had kissed with his thumb, wiping red flecks of blood away, and wiped his own lip off on his sleeve.

“Oh, Vada...” your eyes grew large and soft. You lifted a careful hand to his cheek as you examined his bleeding lip and black and blue eye. A proud grin beamed back at you.

“Hey, we have matching shiners now?” he asked like it was the most hilarious thing ever.

The look of concern dropped off your face. “I can’t leave you alone for five minutes,” you scolded. His eyes were shining with such roguish delight, you gasped in realization, “Did you plan for all this to happen?”

He scoffed, finally letting go his hold on you to put up his hands. “De ninguna manera! Venga, how would I have planned this? I’m not psychic.” When you first finished your match, the punch you’d taken didn’t look like it was going to bruise up so badly, and going out to dinner genuinely seemed like a nice thing to do. You were something else—a sweet thing, but with this wild side you hid from the world. That side of you was all his, but he wanted to prove he could be part of your other life, too, the life he knew almost nothing about.

Had he, however, when the bruise started to darken, leaned into his suspicious behavior _hoping_ to give off the wrong impression just so something like this might happen? Had he been surprised by how bothered he was seeing you uncomfortable in your own sexy skin, and intentionally tried to piss you off enough to bring out your fire? _Maybe._ It was certainly no accident that he left himself wide open to attack the moment you stepped out. He knew you’d come running in time. You were always a reliable bodyguard, and watching you work was better than porn.

That fire was in your eyes now, adrenaline pumping through you as you caught your breath.

“That was so fucking hot, mami,” he growled. “On your knees, now. Fuck.” He pointed to the concrete at his feet. You dropped to your knees and he quickly unbuckled his belt, and freed his cock, already red and throbbing from watching you fight. He smacked it against your lips. “I want you to suck me off, right here.”

You leaned forward, grabbing his sturdy thighs for support, and parted your lips around his warm, salty cockhead, pulse strong under your tongue. Your cheeks burned from doing something so public—the alley was dark and abandoned, but anybody might come out of the restaurant door, or walk in from the street to investigate all the shouting from a moment ago. But you weren’t feeling particularly shy right now, and it was hard to tell if you were nervous, or just keyed-up from from adrenaline. Slowly sliding forward, you opened your throat and took his shaft as deep as you could until your nose was buried in his dark hairs and you had to fight not to gag, then pulled all the way back, teasing your tongue over the large vein running up the length of his cock. There was something strangely comforting about having his large cock in your mouth that helped you calm down. You bobbed on him rhythmically, imagining how degrading the scene would look to anyone who saw you—giving a blowjob to a seedy criminal in a filthy back alley next to a dumpster. It made your cunt twitch, dripping with arousal as you moaned around his cock. You were pretty sure your parents had specifically warned you that if you made the wrong life choices, you’d end up giving blowjobs to drug dealers. You wished you could see their faces now.

Nevada’s long fingers, capable of unspeakable violence, and even now glowing pink from landing several vicious punches on his attacker, caressed over your hair in an affectionate, possessive gesture. He gave a light tug to make you look up and meet his eyes. “Such a good girl, mi guerrerita. So loyal. You could snap me in half, but you’d do anything I ask, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, papi,” you released his erection to answer.

“I didn’t tell you stop, did I?” he snapped, his words clipped, but his eyes playful.

You cocked your head and raised your eyebrows at him defiantly, but he just mirrored your expression, impatiently waiting until you resumed servicing him. You closed your mouth around his cock, fluttering your tongue around the sensitive crown of his head. He chucked at your obedience, the noise only lasting a moment before breaking down into groans of pleasure. God, you were so good, he wanted to do something for you… but at this rate it wouldn’t take long for him to finish, not with his head still dizzy from the fight, the pain swelling in his cheek heightening the pleasure between his legs, and not with the way you were working that skilled mouth on his cock. He didn’t try to draw it out. Now that he decided what he was going to do, he raced toward his climax with selfless abandon, thrusting roughly into your mouth. He jerked his hips hard enough to make you gag, but you just hollowed your cheeks and sucked him harder the more he fucked your face, and he relished your determination as much as the sputtering noises he won. One powerful thrust hit the back of your throat, almost enough to make you tap out, but you held on to his thighs with an iron grip. One more, and he exhaled sharply and left himself buried in your mouth up to his balls, and you were rewarded with hot bitter liquid spilling down the back of your throat.

“Swallow all of that, princesa. We’re at a nice restaurant. You gotta clean up.”

You swallowed, milking every last drop of seed from his cock as you slowly drew back, giving the head an extra lick to make sure you cleaned up everything before he zipped himself back up and re-fastened his belt. You stood up and brushed off your dress. Your knees were obviously dirty and raw, but you were strangely turned on by the idea of everyone in the restaurant knowing you were out there sucking his cock. Though you’d have to hold yourself with a little more confidence so people didn’t _really_ get the wrong idea about Nevada… but that didn’t feel like it would be a problem anymore. After everything tonight, you felt powerful, and didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought.

“Ah-ah-ah, where do you think you’re going?” he said as you began to walk toward the restaurant door.

“Our food? I don’t know if they’re going to let us back to our table after making a scene, but we have to pay the bill.”

“It can wait,” he took your hand and pulled you back, closing his arms around you. This close, his breath smelled of the cigarettes he was constantly trying, and failing, to quit, and his eyes had that dangerous brightness of a thunderstorm about to break. “That was very selfish of me ¿no te parece? You’re the one who deserves a reward, mi fuerte, dulce, cuero loco,” he slowly slid his hand over your ass, circling lower over the tight fabric that left little to the imagination. You squirmed in his arms, unconsciously trying to get him to touch more, directing his hand lower to where you still ached to be filled. “Against the wall.” He shoved you toward the brick surface with a hungry growl.

You bent over, sticking your ass out for him, and he hummed in approval, and brought his palm down on it for a casual spank. Then he ran his hand down the curve of your bottom again, this time lifting the hem of your skirt as his hand came back up.

“Lucky you’re wearing such a slutty outfit. Makes this much easier,” he purred. “Barely anything there. I wonder what you got for panties.” He pulled the dress over your ass, and grinned at the tiny lacy thing you had on.

“Who’s this for?” he asked, cocking a brow as if he didn’t already know the answer.

“For you.”

“Really?” His smile was predatory now, slowly exposing the tips of his teeth.

You swallowed, your cunt beginning to throb at the dangerous promise in his voice. “Yes, Trujillo. I thought you’d like it. I wanted to… to excite you.”

He laughed at that, and your confidence faltered. It was a more vulnerable confession than he realized—that tomboyish you was trying to look sexy—and he laughed. The sharp pang in your chest soothed a moment later when you realized he wasn’t being cruel. “Princesa, _what you just did_ was exciting. Nobody excites me more than you.” He leaned close into your ear and added in a thick whisper, “but I don’t mind you dressing like dirty slut for me, if you want.” You turned your head and kissed him, his lips too temptingly close to resist. He groaned with pleasure and melted into it, more affectionate than the teasing dominant part he was playing. There was his usual smoky flavor, the dark sweetness of wine from dinner, a coppery taste of blood. You gasped and pulled back, worried about hurting him, but his broken lips chased you to press another gentle kiss to your mouth. Turning you in his arms to face him and pinning your back against the wall, he dropped the performance and the dirty talk, and for a long while, just kissed you tenderly like there was nothing else in the world he wanted to do.

Then a finger pushed aside your flimsy panties and slipped into your pussy. He growled deep in his chest, his words barely hoarse breaths, possessive and cocky. “Who are you so wet for?”

“You, Trujillo,” you breathed, heart thudding.

“That’s my good girl,” he said, placing one more chaste kiss to your lips, before dropping to his knees between your feet. He met your eyes, sliding the finger deeper inside you as he leaned forward to taste you. “And a good girl like you deserves to come, doesn’t she?”

He bunched up your skirt just above your hips and told you to hold it for him, and you did, fingers gripping into the fabric as his tongue began working wet circles into your clit. There was none of his usual teasing kisses to your inner thighs or marking them with bites. Tonight you were already past foreplay. He was selfish enough taking his pleasure first; now he knelt at your feet, fully devoted to rewarding you. “Sucking my dick got you so hot,” he groaned into your cunt, making perverse slurping noises as he lapped up your arousal.

“I didn’t tell you stop,” you teased through hitched breaths. He groaned in response, strong hands gripping your thighs and pulling you down harder until you were practically sitting on his face as he ate you out. Without warning, he plunged a second finger into you, sending such a ripple of pleasure through your body you cried out, high and echoing through the narrow alley walls. You clamped a hand to your mouth just in time to smother another choked cry as he laughed, the sudden convulsive movement setting off another wave of heat in your lower body.

“Careful. We wouldn’t want anyone to hear you and get curious,” he smirked, risking your wrath to remove his mouth from you long enough to speak between flicks of his tongue. You growled as you realized now he was going to try his hardest to make you moan, but the noise dissolved into a strangled sob as he followed through with his plan, fucking you hard with his fingers as he engulfed your clit in his mouth and sucked it.

It became a battle of wills—you trying to stay quiet, and him lifting your thigh over his shoulder to spread you wider and attack your sensitive heat with more passion. The alley was an echo chamber of his hungry, lustful growls as he greedily consumed your cunt, your heavy breathing assailed at the edges by soft whimpers threatening to break into ear-splitting wails of ecstasy if you didn’t use all your will beating them back, and the wet smacking sounds of his fingers driving into your twitching, begging flesh. He only broke his mouth’s relentless assault in brief intervals to murmur words of praise that only served to drop your guard and allow fuller-voiced whimpers to slip out.

“You could crush me between these thighs, guerrerita, and I would die happy,” he said, running a hand up the soft underside of the muscular leg slung over his back, flattening his tongue for a broad, soft stroke. “Coño, you’re so beautiful. Come for papi,” he urged, sucking your clit harder, and your whimpering grew louder. Every muscle in your body was burning like a fire and you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Fuck!” you gasped, taking your hand from your mouth and snarling it through Nevada’s heavily-slicked hair. You arched your back, bucking your hips into his mouth as the burning in your muscles coalesced into one single, white-hot point between your legs, and then exploded outward through every extremity as a scream tore from your throat. You held onto his hair, keeping control of his head as you rode out the aftershocks of your climax on his face, chanting, “Vada… Vada…” while his tongue gently soothed your swollen clit, his fingers slowing their thrusts to savor the fluttering of your inner walls around them. You heaved out a shaking breath and sunk back against the wall. Nevada sprang up to catch you just in time as your trembling legs gave way, turning to jelly as all of the tension and adrenaline of the past hour left your body all at once. He gathered you up against him, and you felt safe in his arms.

How ridiculous, you thought—feeling so safe and protected as your breathing shook against his chest. Your eyes focused hazily on the gold crucifix resting there with you. It was ridiculous for many reasons. You were his bodyguard, charged with protecting _him_ , not the other way around. He was a criminal with a brutal reputation; if you ever crossed him, or even if you didn’t, he was just as likely to stab you in the back, and not metaphorically. Right? He was trouble. Not the kind of man you should ever trust with your weaknesses. And yet, his steady arms had caught you, and his heartbeat sounded so human pounding away behind his rib cage.

“Let’s get you home,” he murmured, stroking your hair. “You’re a mess.”

You glanced up and nearly laughed when you saw how much he’d destroyed his bruised lips by going so hard on the intense oral, and that his eye was already swelling up worse than yours. But you figured when he said “you” he really meant “we, but my ego is huge.”

He started leading you back to where his driver was waiting with the Escalade, but you dragged your feet and glanced back at the alley door. “Wh-what about the bill?”

“I’m the fucking King of the Heights. You think I’m gonna clutch my pearls about dining and dashing?” He gave you a raised-eyebrow look. “Anyway, those uptight mamaguevos would rather pay us to _not_ go back inside after everyone south of the George Washington heard you coming.” 


	2. The King of the Heights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time you met Nevada

“You owe me.”

“What?” you hissed, whipping around to face the threatening voice. You kept your face hard, showing no sign of weakness, even as you saw the three intimidating men who had followed you into the alley outside a shady, semi-legal MMA tournament.

“I had a lot of money riding on that fight,” said the shortest of the three, tsk-tsking. His shoes were shiny black leather—expensive, but tacky. He held a cigarette between his teeth when he wasn’t speaking and wore all black except for the gold cross flashing around his neck, pendant resting in a bed of dark chest hair. The two flanking him were bulky heavyweights, over six feet, at least two hundred-fifty pounds a piece, which meant you _probably_ couldn’t take them. Not both at once. They dwarfed the center guy, but they were waiting on his signal to do anything. The small one was the brains. The boss. He was the one you had to keep your eyes on.

“So what? Not my problem.”

You shrugged your gym bag over you shoulder and turned to leave, but his goons stepped forward sharply, ready to grab you, and you thought better of it. As much as you’d rather not show them you were scared, this was the kind of dangerous you didn’t turn your back on.

“Oh, sweetheart. You think I’m playing? You come into my town, looking like a nervous mousy little rookie. _Oh, pobrecita bebita, que tierna,_ ” he mocked baby-talk at you, pouting his lips. “Get everyone betting against you, then the bell rings and you turn into a wild fucking animal. You run a hustle on my turf? Way I see it, that is your problem.”

Your left nostril began to twitch and the corner of your mouth curled into a snarl. “Then get some fucking glasses.” A small voice inside begged frantically, _don’t do this now, calm down,_ but it was already drowned out by a dark, reckless pulsing in your ears. You didn’t like being threatened. Somewhere along the line your stubborn refusal to take any more shit from assholes turned into a fury you couldn’t control, that overrode your own self-preservation. Your bruised fists curled for another fight.

The boss just laughed, a harsh, barking, sarcastic show of power. His men stayed put, for now. “What a dirty mouth. Little warrior here, huh? I like that, I like that.” He prowled toward you, a crooked smirk without teeth bending his neatly trimmed stubble. If he wasn’t such a scumbag you would have called him handsome. Maybe that was what kept you at bay, apart from the knowledge that the second you launched yourself at him in a hail of fists, the two big guys would kill you—because his face was too pretty to bloody up. “Guerrerita, you don’t know who you’re fucking with.”

“You want money, go after the bookies. They’re the ones making bank,” you challenged, taking a few backwards steps to keep distance from him. “I don’t know what kind of hustle you think I’m running, but I bet my last fifty bucks on myself and I’ll still be lucky to make rent. I am not giving a cut to some wannabe gangsters.” You planted your feet at the spot where the alley curved and some old shipping crates created a pinch-point where your smaller size might afford some advantage, and refused to back off another inch.

He stopped, keeping several feet of distance, too. Taking one last drag, he threw his cigarette butt down and crushed it out.

“I’m the King of the Heights, sweetheart,” he explained, as if that should mean anything to you. “Nevada Ramirez.” He extended a hand to shake, and you dropped into a defensive stance. You didn’t like the way he looked you up and down, scrutinizing you with a gaze that made goosebumps rise along your arms. Your muscles twitched in anger and terror, and you tried to balance the two emotions so you could maybe get home in one piece.

“Alright, Mr. Ramirez. Why don’t you and your boys back the fuck off and let me go home. Because you try to follow me, rough me up? I promise it won’t be worth your time. You watched me fight. Before your boys back there can take me down, I’ll have your balls shoved down your goddamn throat. And yeah, you can have your boys shoot me dead.” You noticed the muscle had reached for concealed weapons the moment their boss got within range of your fists. “But what a waste. I’ve never done anything to you. I’m not a threat to your… kingdom? Not unless you attack me first. So why don’t we both just go about our merry ways in peace?”

He laughed again. Dry. Harsh. Your defiance entertained him, but he was growing impatient.

“What makes you think you can tell me how to run this town?” The hard edge to his voice raised the hairs on the back of your neck. As much as you liked to think you’d hit rock bottom and didn’t give a damn anymore, you’d never been murdered. As many impulsive fights as you’d gotten yourself into, you had never been so sure that losing would result in your body in a bag. He smiled when you had no more snappy comebacks, relishing the growing fear in your eyes. His posture opened up, suddenly all friendly. “You’ve got me all wrong. No one’s gonna kill you, guerrerita.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want to know what’s a high-class broad like you doing here?” He raised his eyebrows. His knowing grin sent a jolt down your spine, and he looked satisfied by your reaction, which confirmed his assumption.

Nevada could read people, and he could smell suburbs on you. Nice house. Good family. Educated. White picket fence and a dog. Apparently he couldn’t smell the trauma or the failed stint in the Marines thanks to your occasional but fun penchant for sucker punching assholes without thought to rank.

“What’s it to you?” Your teeth ground together. Like hell you’d ever tell him that story.

“You owe me for that stunt in there. And I know how you can pay me back.”

Now it was your turn to laugh. “Good luck if you think my family will pay you ransom. You think I’d be here if—”

“Work for me.”

Your mind went blank. For several seconds you stared, wondering if you’d heard him right. Finally you blurted incredulously, “What?”

“Come work for me, and we call your debt even.” He looked you up and down again with a smirk. “Bet you clean up into some nice arm candy, classy girl like you.”

You took another step back despite yourself, stomach turning. “No fucking way. I don’t need a pimp, and if you even think of touching me _I swear to fucking god..._ ” Your voice turned into a threatening snarl as disgust turned to rage. Your muscles twitched, ready to do as much damage to his handsome, jeering face as possible before being killed.

“Whoah, easy,” Nevada laughed, putting his hands up in surrender, but with enough dripping mockery to make it a power move. “Nothing like that. Security.”

“Security?”

“You get knocked in the head too many times?” he raised his eyebrows over his shoulder back at his guys, and they laughed along like trained seals. “Think about where you are. You just won a contest for beating the shit outta people. _Security._ ”

“You want me to be a bodyguard?”

“Now she gets it,” he smiled, and it was pure delight. “Enforcers that look the part are a dime a dozen—face full of scars, covered in macho tats. They send a certain message, don’t they? Usually the intimidating shit is what you want. But some situations call for a bit more… _nuance_ than these pendejos.” He jerked his thumb toward the giant brawlers still lurking behind him. One of them sulked. “ _You_ could be subtle. When business requires I don’t advertise I brought muscle. Imagine it,” his tongue darted over his lower lip. “Put you in a dress two sizes too small, and nobody sees you coming until your fist is through their skull. I bet folks underestimate you all the time.”

You almost laughed that the idea of protecting him when he must have known you’d just as soon put a fist through _his_ skull. Working with criminals didn’t sit well with you. Though your life had been one downhill spiral since all the shit that kicked you off your shining life trajectory, you had never done anything illegal. If you didn’t count misdemeanor battery. Which you didn’t. You only punched assholes who deserved it. And you were fairly sure this Nevada Ramirez character deserved it. You didn’t trust him, and you did not take well to being shaken down.

But then he said people underestimated you. His eyes were the color of the sky before thunder: bright, ominous, and flashing dangerously. And when he said it, his bright eyes locked straight onto yours, like he knew. For the first time in your life, it felt like someone was seeing you, the deepest parts of you, and actually liked what he saw.

You didn’t have much of a choice, anyway. It was either accept the job, or have some drug kingpin sic his enforcers on you for your last dollar. 

“What do you need me to do?”


End file.
